


hierarchy of needs

by fishcola



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: (accidental) Violence, Alcohol, Body Horror, Gen, Magic, Self-Esteem Issues, Sharing a Body, also canonical?, but its canonical?, discussion of bathroom stuff but just in a pragmatic way, its a 5+1 game ogre fic is what it is, marijuana (mentioned)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-03 18:33:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19469734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishcola/pseuds/fishcola
Summary: five times pat & simone get what they need instead of what they want(and one time those two things are one)





	hierarchy of needs

**Author's Note:**

> baby's first gen fic. iono, man. game ogre just gave me friendship feels.
> 
> it goes without saying, but this fic exists in a fictional universe which has no bearing on our real one.

# 1\. physiological

“I _can’t,_ Patrick,” Simone sobs and shoves him. 

He has nowhere to go, of course. Shoving him just drags her too, and her weight falls onto him— 

—their weight falls onto them?—

an inelegant mass of limbs and hips and flustered, frustrated elbows. He heaves and scrabbles against her, trying to stop his face from grinding into the wall of the stall. 

“ _Fuck_ , Simone, stop,” he bites out, too loud for a public bathroom but it’s _gross_ , touching the flimsy plastic with his hands let alone with his cheek, and they’re such a disaster of inertia— “god _damn_ it, Simone, _fucking stop_ —”

They end up on the floor. 

More specifically, Pat’s side ends up on the floor, with Simone on top of him, and it’s hell, the pressure on his chest and the twisting pain in his side and the tiles below his fingers, faintly slick and sickening. He can’t stand it, he can’t _stand_ it, and Simone doesn’t seem sorry at all. 

“I’m not doing it! Suck my dick, Pat, you can’t make me.” 

“Stop being a baby,” he barks, voice flat and sharp as a slap. She needs to get _over_ this and get real and stop making their collective life more difficult than it already is. 

“I’d rather piss my pants,” she bites back. “And make you deal with the smell all day, you _fucker._ ” 

Pat struggles, but there’s no way they’re getting up without her help. “Well don’t do it on the fucking floor. You’re gonna get this sweater dirty and then what the fuck will we wear? Just _suck it up._ I’m not gonna _look_.”

She makes a sound of anger and pain and also it’s kind of like a barren sob. Pat doesn’t love that. He wishes she would stick with the anger. When you strip the anger out the despair is too real, resonates too much through their ill-fitting ribcage.

“I can’t do it, Patrick. I’m sorry.” Oh, her voice is wavery and weak. Not good. 

He breathes in, and breathes out again. Slow. 

Normally, when he’s trying to calm down, he’d think hard about how his body feels, meditate on the sensations from toes to fingertips. But that’s not the best way to avoid panic right now. He feels aches that aren’t localized to his body. He feels a heart racing that isn’t his. His chest pulls asymmetrically with his breath—like his skin is caught somewhere and his muscles are fighting against it. It’s not painful, or even uncomfortable, but the _differentness_ of it is a horror that he can’t entirely ignore. 

“I’m sorry,” he manages a calmer tone. Sympathetic. This has got to be a worse hell for her, really. “But you gotta.” 

“Please, Pat.” She’s near tears. 

“Simone. It’s okay. Yeah, it’s embarrassing. I wasn’t psyched about it, but I did it—I’m not gonna look or anything.” 

“I’m not worried about you _looking_ ,” she wipes at her face. “I just—I don’t pee in front of people, Pat. Ever.” 

“First time for everything,” he nudges her. “Will you at least _try?_ The first time’s gonna be the worst.” 

“Fuck you,” she says, but there’s no venom behind it. “You’re a guy. It’s easy for you. Just whip it out. I bet you could do it next to fucking Obama.” 

“I could, yeah, if I had to,” Pat sighs and brushes back his hair. “Look, I get that it sucks more for you, and I’m so fuckin’ sorry, but you _have_ to. You’re going to like destroy your kidneys or something. I can fucking _feel_ how bad it hurts.” 

“Maybe I’ll just die,” Simone’s trying to turn away, which doesn’t work, but he appreciates the attempt. “Maybe that’s what Tara wants. Just torture me until I humiliate myself or die of needing to pee.” 

“Can’t you—” Pat bites his lip, hesitant, because this isn’t the kind of stuff he’s supposed to ask about, and he doesn’t know how this shit _works_ . “Can’t you like…use a _spell_ or something?”

“I’m not good enough,” she groans miserably. “Pat, I’m just a novice. I attract birds and I make poultices. A poultice is not going to fix this.” 

“Sorry,” Pat sighs. “Better to just get it over with, then.” 

Simone eventually relents. She suffers through it, but she’s so fucking wretched that Pat risks begging Tara for mercy. What’s the worst that could happ— 

_well actually Tara could whip up some pretty fucked up shit._

But she’ll probably take pity. 

**please tara** **  
** **please can we have 2 minf/day**

 **No. That defeats the point, Patrick.** **  
** **You need to learn to work together**

**You’re certainly taking a long time to type something.**

****  
**tara we’re never going to learn to work together if we die fighting on the bathroom floor** **  
** **lft hand types slow all rgith**

 **Ah.** **  
** **Okay, the bathroom thing is kind of fair.**

**please**

**Give me a minute**

**thank you tara**

**Okay. Got a spell for you. grab it from ogden.**

Tara’s little fox familiar drops it off at their desk, looking smug as always. The fix is just a pair of bracelets in a ziploc with a post-it note that says _one each — crush a crystal when you need to go_. 

“Fucking _thank god_ ,” Simone gasps, and tries to put hers on her own wrist. She can’t manage it—Pat has to help her, and they sort it out. 

It’s still fucking humiliating, because it’s hard to crush the crystals on your own and they have to ask each other for help. But they can get over that. It’s not perfect, but it’s good enough. 

# 2\. security

Couch naps are an essential part of Pat’s life strategy. It makes everything so much more bearable, to know that at any minute—if you’re too strung out or Twitter’s too nasty or you stayed up all night playing video games or you have that stupid urge to text your ex—if it’s just _not good_ for you to be awake at that moment, you can just black the fuck out. 

Maybe it looks weird at work, but the modern office is comfy, okay, and it’s not 1950 and no one gets cigarette breaks so everyone just _lets him have this_. It’s not like he takes long. About twenty minutes does it. 

When you come to, after twenty minutes, you’re a new fuckin’ man. It’s like a panic button for coping. It doesn’t even give you a hangover. God, he wishes he could have taught himself this skill as a teenager. Shoulder-rolling and counter-strike were great and all, but he’d probably be a better person today if he’d learn to just take fifteen when he needed it. 

So even though he’s half-a-thing sometimes, he tries to indoctrinate Simone into the fine art of couch napping.

She’s _trash_ at it. 

She’s bony and wiggly. She doesn’t like sitting down and being quiet. Even if he begs and pleads and bribes, she’s up and twitching and checking her texts and fixing her hair, and he barely has enough time to nod off before he’s starting up again at a noise or a movement or mild but niggling pain.

“You drool,” she observes shortly as he wakes up, so physically uncomfortable and desperately in the middle of a REM cycle that he could cry. He feels _tireder_ than when he started, somehow, and stupider and worse in every way, and he can’t even whine about it because Simone will probably just tell him how she doesn’t believe in naps.

“Can’t you just lie still _,_ ” he begs. “And like read or something?”

“Fuck you it is _three PM,_ Pat, it’s not a normal time to just lie there like a sack of potatoes.” 

“C’mon Simone, please? I do it for you at night.” 

“You don’t do shit for me. I could sleep no matter what the fuck you’re doing.” 

This is true. Pat’s allowed to play video games at night, long after Simone’s out. It’s hard, with just one hand, but he’s glad he doesn’t have to cut out all the parts of his routine entirely to coexist.

Even if he gets Simone to relent, though, and settle down, he doesn’t think this’ll really work. Their body barely fits on the couch. All he wants is to lie on his side, a quiet moment in the late afternoon, with his face in a pillow and his stupid lanky legs curled up like a pretzel. A little brief respite that’s too short for his brain to conjure a dream but long enough that it gets a hard reset. 

It’s just not to be. 

“All right,” he pushes up. “You win, you win.” 

She stills, and quirks an eyebrow at him, like maybe he sounds as pathetic as he feels right now. Her expression hovers on the edge of annoyed and plunges off into something more neutral. “Nah, I can try, I can try. I can read for a half-hour. Or like meditate. It won’t kill me.” 

He waves a hand. “It’s too hard on the couch, anyway. We don’t fit well enough to sleep. Don’t—don’t worry about it.” 

He knows he sounds like a kid who’s just discovered that Dad’s not coming home for Christmas this year, but he can’t fuckin’ help it. Sim glances over at him, mouth sideways, eyebrow raised.

“Wanna take a walk?” she offers, lightly. “I do that sometimes. Get some fresh air. Clear my head.” 

Wrangling all four legs when it’s not, strictly, _necessary_ , sounds kind of crazy, but before he can think too practically he just says _yes_.

It’s not like New York air is _fresh,_ exactly, but they ramble along imperfectly and Simone snorts too loud while they’re people-watching and… it’s good enough. 

# 3\. social

Getting drunk in this body is exceptionally weird. At first, they avoid it entirely. Their merged form is temporary, and neither of them are keen to test out its physical limitations and try to figure out how to puke with two heads.

It’s not the only bad habit they have to shelve, when they’re together. Simone drags Pat’s lazy ass to work on time. Pat stops Simone from getting midday stoned. Simone makes Pat eat vegetables. Pat makes Simone wind down and read before bed. 

They spend their ogre weeks being boring and conservative. After a few rounds of this, though, they start to suspect that Tara likes them _better_ together. They’re more punctual and less hungover, more awake in meetings and more productive overall. 

“We’re giving her motivation,” Pat sighs. “We gotta stop it. If we keep being good for each other she’s just gonna find every excuse.” 

“Hell yeah,” Simone grins. “Let’s go out and make some bad decisions.” 

The bar Simone picks is pleasantly dark, and they wait for a booth rather than trying to figure out how to balance on two stools. People give them looks, but fuck it. It’s New York. Once they’re seated they’re just two people who are uncomfortably close together, which isn’t that weird, all things considered. 

It becomes immediately clear that Pat is a lightweight compared to Simone. He really only drinks a beer here and there, and cocktails on special occasions, but Simone orders whiskey on the rocks like she’s in a fucking cowboy movie and there’s not even anyone here to _impress_. 

“I don’t know if my liver is going to pull its weight,” he murmurs thoughtfully, watching her sip.

“Trial by fire, baby,” Simone grins. “Mama’s gonna have a few, tonight. Tell me when the room starts spinning.” 

This is probably a joke, at the time, but the room is _definitively_ spinning for Pat before Simone even starts to slow down. She’s really happy, though. Cheerful and chatty and gesticulating in a way that’s more natural for her. She’s usually miserable, whenever they’re stuck together—even more miserable than Pat. It was his idea to get stupid drunk, anyway. He’ll let her set the pace, come what may. 

“Having fun?” he slurs, when she finishes expounding on how torches always are used wrong in movies. 

“Yeah!” She’s excited, eyes bright, but still fairly composed. Either she’s not feeling it that hard, or she’s just better at looking put-together. Probably both. “I fucking _needed_ a night out, Pat. This is great.” 

“Good,” Pat nods. “Glad‘r enjoying. Sorry about the company.” 

“Aw, don’t be like that,” she scowls. “No gloomy shit tonight. Just try to fuckin’ _enjoy_ yourself for once.” 

“Will do,” he says, and salutes. It must be a little uncoordinated because it makes Simone blink at him owlishly. 

“You’re really feelin’ it, ey? You’re getting quiet.” 

He ponders what to say to this for a pause that is almost certainly too long. He doesn’t want to ruin her night—

—but he’s _long_ past the drunkenness level where he would normally not be in public, and in fact quite far past the point where he’d be catching a lyft instead of the subway. 

“Let’s go back to your place,” he pulls himself together enough to say. “We’re too drunk to appreciate this fancy shit. We can jus—play Trials or something.” 

“Oooh yessss,” Simone waves over for the check and they manage to stumble their way out into the night. 

  
  
  


Simone’s neighbors must hate her, Pat thinks, as her frustrated and triumphant shouting rings through his head. She’s better than he is, right now, possibly because they’re both playing one-handed and he’s stuck with left, and possibly because the Manhattan she made really is good but he already feels so drunk he’s nearly out of his body. It was kind of nice, for a while, the floaty fuzzy unclear feeling that blurred some of the uncomfortableness. But now he’s just nauseated and tired and has that strange head-feeling that he knows will be a headache as soon as the pleasant anodyne of alcohol fades. 

He thinks Simone is probably winding down, too. She’s not drinking anymore, just got her legs curled up and is cradling her controller, resting her head on their shoulder affectionately. It’s nice, feeling her relaxed and smiling. 

“You want to smoke a bit?” she yawns and looks up at him. “To help us sleep?”

Pat doesn’t feel like he needs any help to sleep—he feels almost asleep already—but he just says “Sure.” 

Getting up to find her weed and her rolling papers is an unfortunately clumsy endeavor. Pat bangs his shin on the coffee table and can’t even feel it. A bad sign, probably. 

Simone glances up at him, digging in the drawer. “You’re totally wasted already, Pat Gill.” 

“No shit, Simone,” he pants. 

“You’re _adorable_ ,” she smiles, and pushes back his hair from his face. It startles him, her hand coming so close so fast, but he’s not even coordinated enough for flinching. 

“I’m sweaty and old,” he sighs. “And not—sure if I can survive—you seeing me vomit.”

“Aww,” she pats him. “Let’s just go to bed, Patty. C’mon. I got you.” 

She drinks two glasses of water for him and takes some ibuprofen, and he’s so fucking grateful that he doesn’t have to try and put it in his own body that he could kiss her. Then she drags him to the bedroom without significant incident, and helps him get his clothes off. It should be awkward, her hands unbuttoning his jeans and pulling his arms out of their shirt, but he can’t bring himself to feel weird about it. 

God he wishes he could sleep on his side. Sleeping on his back is hell, but there’s nothing for it. 

Her hand, bless her, curls around the top of their heads and starts massaging his scalp. “Sorry I ran you too hard, Pat. I just got a little excited. I didn’t even know we could get different amounts of drunk.” 

“Just a lightweight,” Pat groans. Her fingernails feel so nice, rubbing through his hair. “Cut your night short. ’mnot a good drinking buddy.”

“You are. It was nice to have a drink with you,” Simone continues to pet him, and he feels a bizarre urge to nuzzle closer to her, despite the fact that he’s already about as physically close as one can be. 

“‘m not,” Pat’s eyes are closed now, and he just leans his head and tries not to think too hard about the lurching feeling. “No fun. Stick. In the mud.” 

“Stop it,” she chides. “You poor thing. How do you feel?” 

“Like I’m already puking,” he grunts. 

“You’re gonna be so hungover and I’m gonna get away scott-free. I’m sorry, dude.” 

“Please let’s be late tomorrow,” Pat begs. “Tara’ll be pissed. Then it—at least—worth something…” 

“Totally,” Simone comforts, and keeps petting him until he falls into a fitful sleep.

The next day, Pat feels as sick as a small hospital and Simone’s _fine,_ and it’s fucking annoying as shit. But she promises to try not laughing so damn _loud_ , and Tara glares at them for being late, and so that’s good enough.

# 4\. esteem

It’s necessary, because of the nature of their configuration, for them to see each other (themselves?) naked. Getting showered or dressed requires removing clothes, and there’s only so much polite eye-averting you can do when you’re trying to wrestle your shirts into some semblance of fitting. 

For the most part, Simone seems to take it in stride. Pat had thought—well, okay, he didn’t like _think_ about her boobs, he swears—but he figured she’d be frustrated that she can’t really wear a bra. But she just shrugs and says “eh, I can wear pasties” and that’s fine, apparently, even though Pat hadn’t even really known that was a _thing_ you could _do_. He didn’t know bras were optional, really. 

And then he feels like an ass, for not knowing that, because of course they are, what the fuck. 

Pat’s bits are easier, because he can just pull on underwear one-handed and then he’s pretty much covered. There’s nothing to feel embarrassed about, after that 0.3 seconds is done. There’s no reason to be weird about his bare hairy chest or skinny pale legs or strange bony shoulders or weirdly narrow thighs or any of the other numerous swatches of skin to which Simone is now regularly exposed. 

But—he really has a problem with it, some days.

It makes him blush all the way down his throat, when they step out of the shower together and in front of the mirror. It’s especially bad, seeing their two bodies together. She thinks it’s about her. 

“Don’t make it weird,” she laughs, “but I don’t actually care if you see me naked.” 

“Thanks?” he says, but what he wants to say is _dear god but what if I care._ Not about her—Simone is gorgeous, although he tries not to collect evidence to support that claim or anything—he cares if _she_ looks at _him._

He doesn’t know how to bring it up, in any capacity, but his stupid hands fumble over morning ablutions every day and Simone keeps rolling her eyes at him and just—fuck— 

he’s not sure _why_ , why it makes his shoulders hunch, the way her eyes skim over him, assessing, as if his appearance reflects on her. He supposes it does, really. He’s sort of an extension of her body, at the moment, and subject to the same critical scrutiny with which she applies her foundation and does her hair and adjusts her clothes on her perfect, smooth shoulders. 

He finds himself wanting to ask for help, ask her to do him too, or at least teach him how to clean himself up to her standards. But that’s impossible. What she has, magic or mundane, Pat’ll never have. He’ll always be covered in zits and ingrown hairs, strange patches of silvery-grey hair, weird jagged scars from stitches, oily skin, except the patches on his elbows that’re so _dry_ . He’ll never be able to pick out a bold lip color to draw attention away from the dark circles under his eyes. He’ll never understand the parade of lotions she applies, to keep her skin smelling sweet and floral-fresh. He’ll never just look _put-together_. 

It’s awful, when she glances over at him, unbashful, and points out a mole on his back that he _r’lly shd get chukt awt_ with a mouth full of toothpaste. It’s embarrassing, that he doesn’t pick up one-handed shaving as fast as she does one-handed makeup. It’s devastating, when she runs her hand through his hair and grimaces and says _ew._

“Can’t we get dressed before you do all that moisturizing shit,” he grunts, at last, because it’s torture every morning to watch this sitcom-cum-game-show, in which a normal human being does elegant self-care while she’s attached to a scruffy half-drowned rat.

“You’re such a fuckin’ prude, Pat,” she gripes. “Sorry if you don’t like looking at me, but deal with it. Mama’s got a skincare routine.” 

“It’s not that,” he sighs, pressing his hand over his closed eyes. 

“I swear to god if you’re gonna straight-man _oh you take so long to get ready_ me I’ll—”

“Not that either,” Pat bites, cuts her off, meets her gaze. “I don’t give a fuck about that. I just—I don’t spend a lot of time staring in mirrors, all right? When I’m just me.” 

“—huh?” 

He forces it out, because if this purgatory has taught him anything, it’s that Simone will never leave a goddamn hint alone until she figures out what he’s talking about. “It’s not you, Sim. It’s _me._ I don’t like you looking at me.”

Her fingers still, where they’re fiddling with some pot of cream or other—it’s hard to get the lids off one-handed, but she rarely asks for help. “Oh.” A beat. “Why?” 

Pat lets his eyes flick to himself in the mirror, but he doesn’t meet his own stare. Just lets his gaze—his stupid bitter expression that’s angry and yet somehow also goofy—drop past the center of his chest, they way it dips in weirdly, ill-formed, strange enough that the first couple days Simone touched the little divot with her fingertips and said _what the hell that’s WEIRD pat_ —down to his hips, where the ugly trail of coarse black hairs straggles up, asymmetrically, to his bellybutton. 

“I dunno. I just don’t.” 

He doesn’t bother hoping she’ll let it go at that, because _he knows Simone by now_ , okay. 

“Wait, why, though.” She’s looking at him in the mirror now, and it makes his posture even worse. 

“Isn’t it fucking obvious,” he grits out through his teeth, “why I wouldn’t want to stare at my pale bony ass.”

Her hand twitches, makes some aborted gesture. “What. Patrick, don’t be—hey…” Oh, he fucking _hates_ how her tone is changing, going from her usual huffy morning annoyance to something like _pity_. “You look fine.”

“I don’t need the bullshit, Simone. Just forget it.” 

“It’s not bullshit,” she says, and reaches out her hand to touch his wrist. He didn’t realize he was gripping the counter. “Hey. Look at me, please.” 

He wrenches his gaze up, sarcastic but obedient, and meets hers in the mirror. “Uh-huh.” 

She’s staring, calculating something. “ That’s why you’re being so weird every morning. ‘Cause you don’t like how you look.” 

“No shit.” 

Her gaze narrows. “Why not.” 

God, will she ever just let something go. “Hard to kinda pick out a bottom three, honestly.”

“Try.” He pulls his hand away from hers, frustrated, rubs it across his chin. 

“I dunno, Sim. Just—” he sighs. “Look, I know it must be new to you.” 

She continues to look at him in the mirror, willing him onward. 

“Not so much for me, all right? So just uh,” he turns his head, fixes it on the wall, studiously ignoring her. “Like I’m sure when you look at us you’re not _happy_ about it, all right, that this gross freak is stuck to you?” 

“I don’t think that,” Simone says, gently. “And you’re in the same boat, anyway—”

“I’m _not_ ,” Pat grates out. “You’re gorgeous. I’d fucking kill to look like you.” 

She takes in this information with some surprise, but Pat barrells on. 

“I know that I could never—I mean, I guess I could take care of myself better, but I don’t even know how. I’m like a fucking child, watching you do all that,” he gestures blindly, “stuff. And half of it I’m not—I’m a dude, so—”

“Brian wears makeup,” she says, answering the argument he’s not making. 

“I’m not Brian,” Pat grits his teeth. “I don’t look like a fucking faerie prince and I’m not twenty-two and I didn’t grow up taking improv classes and learning to sew.”

“I don’t know what you’re saying, Pat, honestly.” 

Pat closes his eyes. “I don’t know either. I’ve never known what to do about how I look. You should have seen how long I agonized over growing my hair out, Sim. Ages.” 

“ ‘Cause it’s girly? It’s not, for the record..”

“I don’t know why. It just—it fucking irks me, watching you know how to—you look exactly how you’re supposed to, and then you know exactly how to do what you’re supposed to to keep it up—”

“How am I _supposed_ to look, Pat?” 

Her voice has an edge to it, but it doesn’t really seem angry.

“I don’t know,” he says, and he’s desperate to run away but of course, he can’t. “Sorry. That was fucked. I just—I—” He covers his face with his hand. “Look, I’m not trying to—I’m sure you have bad hair days or whatever—I’m not saying you have to look in some particular way—”

“Chill. What do you think _you’re_ supposed to look like, maybe’s a better question?”” 

Pat shrugs. He doesn’t have an answer to that question, not one that he can spit out. Maybe not even one that’s in his head. If he had a magic wand that he could wave to change one thing about his body, he doesn’t know what he’d pick. He doesn’t know what _ten_ things he’d pick. He just knows he wants to _feel_ how Simone _looks_ —confident and strong and no-nonsense—hot and proud and decisive—like she’s living how she wants to— 

Simone, god bless her rude ass, saves him. “ _I_ think you look hot as shit, Pat. And don’t fucking argue with me, because everyone says we look alike. So I’m gonna take it _personal._ ” 

Pat hesitates, at that. “I dunno…” 

“Well _I_ know,” she barks, impossible to argue with, as always. “We’re hot as shit. So buck up, buttercup. Your youtube comments are fucking _nicer_ than mine. So you’re gonna own it, goth boy.” 

The only answer he has for that is a shrug. But it does feel kind of nice, the way her hand pushes his shoulder, chiding him. Sibling-like. Like she’s not disgusted, to be fucking attached to him. Just mildly annoyed. 

“Fine,” he sighs. “but can we _please_ wear black today.” 

“All right, all right,” she grins, and that’s enough.

# 5\. self-actualization

“Keep the ice on it,” Simone scolds. “Stop fucking with your phone— _stop—_ stop putting it down!” 

“Or what?” Pat grouses, peeved. “You gonna give me another one?” 

She lets out a puff of breath. “I’m fucking _sorry_ , okay? It was an accident. This stupid body still doesn’t—I don’t usually have a fucking _face_ near my shoulder—I didn’t mean to—”

“I know, I know,” Pat sighs, and relents. It’s annoying to hold the cold pack up to his eye with only one hand, because it means he can’t do anything else at all. Simone’s finishing work that’s so bone-numbingly boring that he doesn’t care to look at it, and even if he did he’d only have one good eye, anyway. 

She’s bad at one-handed typing, but she manages. He watches her shiny grey fingernails with a detached expression. It’s not fair, that she gets to be right hand. It’s fine in the games. Understandable—he’s the more experienced player, so he takes the handicap. But neither of them is experienced in doing _this_ , in stumbling through life overlarge and clumsy and sweaty and connected, and he feels like it’s especially cruel that he has to learn how to do it all southpaw. 

“You okay?” she asks, after a few minutes of her fingers spidering over the keyboard uninterrupted. “Does...does it still hurt?”

He puts down the ice momentarily and presses into his eye socket with his fingers. “Nah. Not anymore. You popped me a good one but you didn’t like break anything.” 

“Except your glasses,” she says, flicking her hand to gesture at them. He successfully suppresses his flinch. Simone’s movements can be a little unpredictable. It’s dangerous even when you’re not attached to her, just being close to her in a room. He’s permanently in the splash zone right now for whenever her body is handling some emotion that is too big to be borne with stillness. 

“They were already broken. Just popped out the lens again. No big deal.” 

She pats their shoulder, which feels weird. Sensation is a little strange, along the boundary. Blurred. “I just do things without thinking. I’m sorry.” 

“It’s really fine,” Pat insists. “I told you. It’s fine. Why’re you stressing about it?” 

“Clayton texted me to ask if you were okay,” she confesses. “He thought I was mean to laugh at you.” 

Pat quirks a smile. “No, the laughing was fine. I was also laughing. It’s just too stupid not to laugh.”

“ _I_ thought so,” she bites back a grin. “I, uh, flail around and hurt myself a lot. And then I laugh about it. It seemed natural. I wasn’t like—trying to be a _dick_ —”

“You were fine,” Pat says, for the third time. “It was funny. It’ll really make the video, I think. Clayton’s probably just feeling guilty because he’s gonna put it in slo-mo and he doesn’t like how much he’s giggling at my pain.” 

She ponders this. “Maybe. He reminded me that like, when I double over I’m also dragging you to the floor like a jerk.” 

“You _do_ laugh with your whole body,” Pat admits. She’d doubled over in laughter and embarrassment and sympathetic pain, and he’d of course come with her. For whatever reason, when Simone finds something very very funny or funny-and-a-little-bit-sad she’ll double right over and put her hands on the ground. Pat hadn’t minded too much. Just had to do some funny impromptu acrobatics to get his skinny gangly body out of the way. “It’s fine, though. I’m flexible for a guy. Not as flexible as Brian, but I can touch my toes.” 

“I’m glad I’m ogred with you and not Brian,” Simone says, suddenly. 

Pat raises an eyebrow, because this is a little mean for Simone, even when she’s in a grumpy mood. “Oh?”

“I don’t mean like— _fuck_ I am just putting my foot in it today.” She’s got her hand on her face in embarrassment. “It’s not—he’s like too _nice_ —.” 

Patrick gets it. He could just spit out the words for her, that she’s struggling with, explain that it’s easier to be completely uselessly wretchedly vulnerable with someone who already knows you at your worst. Someone who also has a foul mouth and a temper and some issues to work through. 

He could just say that. But he smirks and makes a joke instead. “Don’t think Brian could take a beating?” 

“You _asshole_ ,” she grunts, and shoves his free shoulder, and he laughs. “I’m really trying to remember why I ever felt sorry for hitting you.” 

“Just lean into it,” Pat advises. “You’re stuck with me for another week. Plus I’m claiming that this means I get to pick where we eat lunch.”

“You can’t pick pizza _again_ ,” Simone whines, fake-chagrined. 

  


They do get pizza, because Pat is an asshole. 

And fuck it. Even if it’s another week of her bitching. He likes pizza, and Simone tolerates being dragged along. And yeah, they take turns being fake-angry at each other, fake put-upon, fake-annoyed, fake-exasperated. 

But actually it’s nice. To spend a little time together. To have someone to call you on your bullshit. To be an asshole and have someone be an asshole back. To say _good night_ to someone. 

Pat’s only been in New York for a year. But something about this hellscape feels like home, now.

He’s not fucking thanking Tara for it, though.


End file.
